


If I Lay Here

by RedBubbles



Category: Pocket Monsters: Sun & Moon | Pokemon Sun & Moon Versions
Genre: Also reader has a sister but she's barely mentioned, But mostly fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Guzma and reader kinda know each other, Hurt/Comfort, basically I can't write, the tiniest bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 06:13:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9806726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedBubbles/pseuds/RedBubbles
Summary: New places can be overwhelming, and lack of familial support only makes it all that much harder to bare. Only where family support lacks, perhaps platonic, dare I say, romantic support, may prevail





	

You rest your head against the wall, hugging your knees to your chest. On the floor below, you can hear the rumbling voices of two grunts fighting about something.

The wall is cold, and you lean against one of the many pieces of graffiti in the house, tears dripping down your cheeks. Staring blankly at the opposite wall, you allow yourself to zone out, blocking out all sounds, smells and feelings, including the broken ache in your chest.

So deep into the trance do you sink that you don’t hear the footsteps thudding up the stairs, or the annoyed muttering as Guzma complains to himself about yet another thing.

He catches his hip on the banister, and he yells out in pain, wrenching you from your daze and making you squeak quietly.

You turn to look at Guzma, not caring about your reddened eyes or your wet cheeks.

He scowls at you.

“What are ya doing just skulking-hey, you ok?"

You shake your head, pressing the heel of your hand into your eyes hard enough to make light dance across the darkness.  
“Nothing,” you say, but your voice betrays you. It comes out as a hoarse, broken whisper. Guzma sighs deeply, and then flops down next to you. You look at him, but he’s just tugging his jacket off, revealing muscular arms and the tattoo on his forearm.  
“What are you doing?”  
“Floor visit,” he says, then drapes his jacket over your shoulders. He puts his arms behind his head and leans against the wall. You stare at him in shock, then slowly grip the edges of his jacket and pull it tighter around you. It smells of him, deodorant and cologne and pokébeans and faintly of sweat. 

Silence passes between you. Guzma is the one to break it.  
“Look, if ya don’t start talking, I’m gonna have to start telling you my problems, and then we’ll really be in trouble,”

You sniff hard, not quite managing to muster a smile, and tilt your head back, resting it against the wall. 

_You will not cry._

“My parents,” you say, and Guzma hisses.  
“Everyone in this damn place got problems with their parents,” he growls, “fucking kids up is what they do,” he glances at you, “sorry, sorry, go on,”

You take a deep breath.  
“They’ve never really agreed with what I do. My dad works for a lab back in Sinnoh, and my mom is a pokémon coordinator, a good one too. She wanted me to follow in her footsteps, and I did, for a few years. When I deviated, my dad tried to get me into research, with him. My sister became a really good trainer. She’s made a lot of money, and she’s really smart too,” you swallow heavily, “I tried calling them to tell them about the island trials and the elite 4 and the stuff I’d been doing but-“ your eyes sting and you squeeze them shut, breathing in and out deeply, “but…”

You tilt your head forward again, tears streaming down your cheeks. You sob quietly, letting the tears flow freely. Guzma doesn’t move for a few minutes, just lets you cry, but then, in a move you don’t anticipate, he shifts closer and puts an arm around you, pulling you against his chest. 

For a moment, you don’t move, just keep letting the tears fall, but then, you twist your torso and bury your head in his collar, crying a little harder. He rubs circles on your back, resting his chin on your head. 

“I tried calling them to tell them about how I’m doing, but they would cut me off whenever I tried to say something, and kept bringing the topic back to my sister,” you hisper, then squeeze your eyes shut, saving the worst for last, “and I told my mom I might be coming back to visit, a-and…and…”

You trail off, sobbing a little harder. Guzma keeps rubbing your back gently. It takes you a few minutes before you're able to choke out the last few words.

“Sh-she said there w-wasn’t much point in me coming back, because I had nothing to offer them in the way of talent,”

You break down into fresh, painful sobs. Guzma stiffens up slightly, his hand going still on your back. His hold on you tightens.

“That’s fuckin’ bullshit,” he says roughly, “absolute bullshit,”

His touch becomes gentler, so he’s almost cradling you as you sob; fresh, painful tears. Slowly, after about 7 minutes, when your tears begin to subside into small, ugly hiccups, he brings his hand to your face and gently tilts your head up to look at him. You blink at him and shift so you can face him better, wiping the tears from your face.

“You’ve got loadsa talent,” he says, “buckets of it. Hell, I don’t think there’s a person in this region who could match you for battling skill, ‘cept for me, maybe. Who the fuck cares if ya boring ass dad and ya boring ass mom don’t think you’re as good as ya boring ass sister? Not me, that’s for fucking sure,”

You should feel offended that he called your family boring. You should defend them. But the emotional validation it gives you is too comforting.

“I’m sorry I forced my problems on you like this,” you say, looking down and wiping your tears away. He pulls your head back up, so you're eye to eye. He maintains the eye contact, and it’s not to intimidate you this time. You don’t want to look away or escape. You just want to keep staring. 

“You ain’t forcing nothing on me,” he says, “I’m the one who sat down with ya and decided to let you cry your heart out, and I don’t fucking regret it,”

You sniff hard and smile weakly.  
“Thank you,”

His eyes flicker, as though searching yours for something. You bite your lip. Your hand is pressed against his knee for balance, and his arm is heavy around your shoulders, holding you firmly. You desperately don’t want him to let go.

Then, as if answering your prayers, he leans in, holds you tighter, and presses his lips to yours. 

The kiss is soft and gentle, the complete opposite to Guzma himself, and lasts only for a second. It leaves your lips burning for more, and you lean in, trying to hold onto him. His lips are pliant and warm, and as he pulls away, a soft gasp escapes your lips. A good 5 seconds after he’s pulled away, your eyes flutter open. His gaze lingers on yours for a few seconds, and then, without warning, he bolts up, keeping a firm grip on your wrist. You stumble up after him, hanging onto his jacket, and he begins pulling you along the corridor.

“G-Guz?”  
“Shuddup,” he says gruffly, “just shuddup and come with me. I’ve been waiting way too long for this,”

He kicks his bedroom door open and pulls you inside, slamming it shut with his foot. You stumble against the wall and he follows, caging you in with his arms either side of your head. You're trapped between him and the wall, and you blink up at him, waiting. 

A charged moment passes between you, and then he leans in again, pressing his lips to yours. 

Your hand immediately comes up to cup his cheek, but this kiss is different. It’s just as soft and gentle, but he’s meaning it to take longer. He’s trying to prolong it. One of his hands drops away from the wall and settles on your hip. His touch sends sparks through your skin, and you clench your other hand. 

The stubble on his cheek is rough against your palm, but his lips are soft and gentle and yielding. 

Everything about this is slow and gentle and thoughtful.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

His other hand inches up your shirt slowly, and you tense up slightly as it disappears beneath your shirt, but he simply stops, resting his large, calloused palm against the warm skin of your stomach. 

He pulls away after a few minutes, huffing softly. You gaze up at him, your hand still on his cheek. You don’t move for a few seconds, and then the hand that’s under your shirt moves around, over your waist and around to the small of your back, pulling your abdomen against his, flush against his chest. You gaze up at him, splaying your fingers out on his cheek.

“Guz…I don’t…I don’t want to…”

He shakes his head and leans down, resting his chin on my head.  
“Didn’t expect ya to want to. Can we at least…ya know, get into bed?”

You glance at the bed. White sheets, black covers, 3 black pillows. Unassuming and innocent. You nod, and Guzma’s hand slowly encircles your wrist, tugging you away from the wall. As you're about to climb in, he stops you.  
“You aren’t gonna wear your shoes in my bed, right?” 

You flush red at the dumb mistake, and kick them off. After a moment of deliberation, you pull your jeans off, and your shirt, leaving you in your panties, tank top and his jacket, still wrapped around your shoulders. You clamber onto the bed with all the grace of a seal, and lay down. Guzma’s eyes wander over your body, and you cross your legs subconsciously. He pulls his shirt off and, to your horror and pleasure, slips his pants off too. He climbs in after you, his hand finding the curve of your waist, the other sliding beneath your cheek to cup your face. The way he touches you is so tender and soft, as though he thinks you’ll break if he handles you too roughly. 

You avert your gaze, not being able to stand looking at him for very long. It feels too exposed. His chest is surprisingly hair free, and well built. Not muscular, but lean and defined. There’s a scar running across his collar bone, and you stroke your thumb over it gently. He sighs, and his clavicle notch deepens for a moment. 

His hand moves up and down your waist slowly, and you cuddle closer to him. He wraps his arm around you, his fingers gripping your shoulder, the other hand still cupping your face. You gaze at him, pressed against him, and rest your forehead against his, shutting your eyes. He presses his lips to yours gently, and you kiss back. When he pulls away, you hunch in a little, running your hand over the ridge of his hipbone. 

“Thank you,” you whisper, and he chuckles softly.  
“Anytime,” he replies, “especially if you repay me like this,”

You cuddle closer, scooting down so your chin rests on his chest and your head is tucked under his chin.  
“Don’t read into it too much,” you murmur. 

The crying has made you exhausted, and talking about everything has made your chest feel lighter. For the first time in weeks, you drift into an easy sleep, soothed by Guzma’s arms around you and the gentle rise and fall of his chest.


End file.
